Let The New Era Of Vengeance Begin
by blackdragonsghost
Summary: AU. What if Calesta used the time that Damien and Gerald were shipbound to prepare a not very welcoming reception on the Western Continent? When both Church and Forest come under attack, Gerald and Damien will have to use every ounce of cunning just to survive: especially since they're not exactly on the right side of the law anymore... Slash, background het, violence, dark.
1. Prologue: In Absentia Convictus

_Author's Note: So. I know that the idea of a resurgence of superstition and the slaughter of fae-workers isn't exactly new - but, this is a different take. I've concocted a neat little twist whereby the Church is just as hard-hit as the rest of them. I don't want to spoiler my own work, so I'll just say this: the Patriarch's having a very bad day. _

_A.N.2: A word of warning, to all who dare read here. This is not a happy fic. It will be pretty damn grim. The sole tendency toward a happy ending at present, in fact, is that no matter what twists and turns the plot may hold, I can't stand the thought of ever killing Damien or Gerald (outside of that one tragedy fic that I wrote in a fit of depression). That said, I have a disturbing propensity for working sort-of happy endings out of the most dead depressing fics, so you never know. _

_Warnings: Slash, violence, smut, general unfairness of the universe, probable character death excluding my favorite slash pair. Some het between my OCs. _

_Disclaimer: I have no claim to the Coldfire Trilogy, I simply like to play with the characters. I also do not own the British Treason Act, obviously, since it dates from the time of King Edward III who lived hundreds of years ago. _

_A.N.3: Fic title is a line from the song White Wolf by Kivimetsän Druidi. All future chapter titles will be from this song as well, with the sole exception of this prologue's title, which is Latin for "In Absence Convicted". I know I should wait to finish my other WIPs before I start this, but... I just can't! I have too many ideas in my head and I just have to get them out there! Besides, I'm just about finished Crimes of Passion, so I'll soon have a slot free. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. (And call me overeager, but I wanted to be the one to post the 100th Coldfire Fic!) Obviously, don't hold your breath for updates, though as always I'll do my best. _

_..._

**Prologue: In Absentia Convictus**

The words were inscribed in letters harsh and bold above the judge's podium, on a panel of brass, in graven lines one foot high.

THE TREASON ACT

_"When a man do levy war against our Lord the King in his realm...or be adherent to the King's enemies in his realm, giving them aid and comfort in the realm and elsewhere, and thereof be provably attainted of open deed by the people of their condition...this shall be one ground upon which the party accused of the offence and legally proved to have committed the offence, shall be held to be guilty of the crime of high treason."_

The many citizens who lined the hard-backed wooden benches of the Royal Courtroom sat very still, their faces frozen into unreadable masks. The verdict being handed down here today had the power to change many of their lives, for it would set the tone of months and years to come, possibly even determining the future of all fae-Workers on Erna. Though all officials sources were adamant that this trial would determine the fate of one man, and one man only, all present knew that those words were hollow. In the trial for this man's life, would be decided the course of their own.

The judge sat solemn and stern, his hands resting upon the aged wood as though they carried the weight of the world within them. His voice boomed forth, deep and slow, uttering sentences which had the power to utterly reshape the world about them.

"Gentlemen of the jury, what are your findings?"

A juror rose, pale and stiff, to deliver the grave verdict. "In the matter of Reverend Damien Kilcannon Vryce vs. The Crown, heard _in absentia_ for reasons of extreme urgency, and tried with prejudice, we find the following. On the count of Aiding and Abetting his Majesty's Known Enemies, we find the defendant: Guilty."

Though no audible gasps were heard, the air of the courtroom seemed to ripple as soft, despairing breaths escaped the throats of many of those present. The juror continued, his own mien indecipherable, yet stiff with restrained emotion.

"On the count of Consorting with Powers of Evil, we find the defendant: Guilty. On the charge of Aiding and Abetting Known Fae-Workers, three counts, we find the defendant: Guilty."

The juror paused, blinking slowly as though he wished dearly to close his eyes, then read the last charge.

"On the count of High Treason Against his Rightful Majesty the King, we find the defendant, Damien Kilcannon Vryce: Guilty."

Somewhere in the crowd, a young woman began to cry silently, tears streaking down her cheeks as the fate of Erna was inscribed in stone. The judge nodded slowly, never breaking his grave mask.

"And what are the jury's recommendations?"

This time the juror did close his eyes, but only for a moment, before he restored his mask and responded. "The jury recommends that sentencing be carried out immediately, your Honor, and-" his voice faltered, a quaver barely perceptible to the unwary ear, but in the oppressively silent courtroom it had the crispness and power of a clarion call. "-and without mercy."

The judge was immobile, a statue of unalterable fate. "Thank you, you may be seated." The juror sank down into his seat as though his legs would no longer support him, and the judge raised his gavel, intoning the words that would seal Damien Vryce's fate.

"Damien Kilcannon Vryce, Knight of the Flame, Priest of the Church of Human Unification on Erna, is hereby sentenced death, under the laws and provisions of this Holy Monarchy and the blessings of his Majesty the King."

Like the Grim Reaper's scythe, the gavel fell.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

The messenger spoke with his eyes on the floor, his face and voice alike void of any trace of inflection as he delivered the news. "A verdict has been reached. The priest was convicted on all counts."

King Steafán nodded, never taking his gaze from the window which overlooked his gardens - and beyond the marble palace wall, the bustling, teeming capital city of Paxtarrani. "And the sentence?"

"Death, your Majesty."

"Excellent." The King of the United Human Lands, ruler of the Blessed Kingdom of Éireanon, clasped his hands together behind his back as though deep in thought. "You are dismissed."

"Yes, your Majesty." The messenger bowed deeply and departed from the royal study, shutting the door soundlessly behind himself. Steafán turned from the window and nodded slightly to the shadows of the far wall, where a series of wall hangings cast pools of shadow between the decorative numarble columns.

"I do not understand your newfound obsession with this lowly priest." A woman's voice, low and throaty, came from the shadows. The owner of the voice glided forward: she was slim yet curvaceous, her pleasing figure highlighted by a deep crimson sheath dress and a luxurious fur stole. Her pale skin was offset by jet-black hair that tumbled in loose ringlets over her shoulders and long-lashed sapphire eyes. A black velvet choker, set with a silver clasp holding a faceted ruby, nestled around her elegant throat, the jewel gleaming in the light as she moved to settle herself on a plush divan near the fireplace. Her lovely, aristocratic face was one that any citizen of Paxtarrani would recognize: she was Alwyne Lalatheí, the King's semi-official mistress. She trailed her long, manicured fingernails along the silk of the cushions, tilting her head curiously at her King and lover. "What makes him so important?"

"It is not the priest himself, my dear, but what he represents." Steafán said, striding across the room to sit down in an armchair across from her. "He is a symbol of all the corrupt fae-Workers in my kingdom - and living proof of how even those with the noblest of intentions can be polluted by the taint of the fae. Besides, by seeking him, I intend to capture the one who travels with him."

Alwyne lifted one shapely eyebrow, her blue eyes wide and innocent. "Who might that be, my love?"

"There is an adept traveling with him." Steafán said darkly. "I cannot prove it yet, or by God I would lay charges against him that would make a Patriarch quail... but I am certain that he serves the Forest, and thus the Hunter."

Alwyne's eyes narrowed to blazing slits, and her fingers clenched suddenly, her talon-like nails digging into the soft pillows. "_The Hunter_?" she hissed, a terrifying light springing forth in her deep blue eyes. "A priest of the One God travels with a servant of that hell-spawned monster?"

Steafán nodded gravely. "Indeed. That is why they must both be captured, and brought here to the Palace. I must discover their intent - and, if possible, break the Forest's servant to obtain knowledge of its master."

The fires in Alwyne's eyes cooled slightly, and she leaned forward, her rich voice dropping into a seductive purr. "When you catch him, love, bring him to me." Her nails raked over the pillow again, cutting faint, almost-invisible lines into the fine silk. "I will have him spilling his secrets in no time at all."

Steafán paled slightly. This was why his mistress was legendary throughout the city's capital: Alwyne was ruthless and shockingly bloodthirsty, yet beautiful enough that men who came face-to-face with her forgot all the tales of sadistic cruelty. Such were her seductive powers that many swore she was not human: that she was a Siren, or a _sidhe,_ or even a succubus - something powerful and enchanting, somehow more than human. Sometimes the King forgot how vicious she could be: she always reminded him soon enough.

"As you wish, my love."

Alwyne smiled, her blue eyes glinting coldly. "You always do invent the very best strategies, my love." she murmured, turning her glittering gaze back onto the dancing flames in the numarble fireplace. Inside, she was singing in victory, laughing her triumph in the silence of her dark soul.

Very soon, she would finally achieve her long sought-after vengeance.


	2. Chapter One: Flight Of The Raven

_Author's Note: Ah, so good to hear that my readers enjoy! I did good with the names, eh? I wanted fairly meaningful names, but also ones that sounded exotic enough for Erna. I'd give the meaning of the names, but I don't want to hint too strongly at what's coming up._

_..._

**Chapter One: Flight of the Ravens**

Damien stood at the bow of the _Golden Glory_, enjoying the surprisingly warm breeze that had sprung up. According to Gerald, the warmth meant that they were nearing land: the air was warmed by the thermals rising from the dry land, and had not traveled far enough over the cold ocean water to lose that warmth. The wind had done a lot to lift the priest's spirits, both because it seemed almost hopeful in its pleasant temperature, and because it meant that they would soon be on dry land once more.

For all that he was far more comfortable on a ship in general, Gerald seemed glad to be approaching their home continent as well. Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that while at sea, he was virtually cut off from the power that sustained his very existence.

As though summoned by Damien's thoughts, Gerald melted out of the darkness, a faint smile curving his lips as he moved to stand at the knight's side. "Vryce. Anticipating that first glimpse of land?"

"You have no idea." Damien said wryly. He glanced sideways at the adept, appraising him. The dynamic of their alliance was shifting yet again, and had been for some weeks now, but Damien thought that this time it might be a shift for the better.

The nightmares had eased lately, and strangely enough, Damien could have sworn that Gerald was _flirting_ with him. It had started with the supposedly 'accidental' touches, the subtle glances that could have been real or imagined - and then the dreams changed as well. The Hunter had started insinuating himself into the dreamscapes more often, and those interactions in the dead of night... a few times, Damien had been sure that the adept was about to kiss him, right before the dream dissolved back into the fae from which it had been woven. By rights Damien probably should have been panicking, but in truth, he was rather enjoying this new element of their relationship. With the sting of Rasya's death still fresh in his mind, he had missed that simple companionship and intrigue as much as he had missed the woman herself. Whatever game Gerald was playing now, Damien was willing to play along, for now at least.

A pleasant side effect was that the cat-and-mouse flirtation seemed to have cooled the adept's temper considerably. He hadn't snapped at Damien in four weeks, although they still bickered occasionally, and though he was just as cryptic as ever, he often made his puzzling remarks with a smile on his face and a playful sparkle in his silver eyes. Damien had no clue what had brought about this sudden shift in attitude, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

After all, the Hunter was certainly attractive enough. Nothing serious could ever come of it, of course, they were far too different for that - but if a bit of flirting and maybe a roll in the hay would mellow the mercurial adept, who was Damien to object?

At the moment, Gerald was practically _lounging_ against the railing of the ship, regarding Damien with an amused expression. Damien shot him a questioning look. "What?"

The adept chuckled softly. "You are quite the puzzle, Vryce, one that is a great deal more difficult to solve that I would have guessed. I thought you'd be storming around demanding answers by the second day - instead, you've simply adapted. Fascinating."

Damien tried and failed to suppress a grin. "This is about this... whatever the hell it is that's going on between us?"

Gerald smirked. "Eloquent as ever, Vryce: however, that does sum it up nicely. I was not expecting you to adapt so quickly - nor so calmly."

Damien cocked his head, grinning openly now. "Oh? And why's that?"

Gerald snorted softly. "For one thing, I was under the impression you were straight - and while I have in the past, shall we say, _persuaded_ men to assume more open viewpoints... there's usually a few stages of denial and rage to get through first. Also, you've spent rather a lot of time telling me the various painful ways you plan to kill me. I foolishly assumed that meant that you harbored a dislike for me."

Damien chuckled. "Well, to address your first point, I'm bisexual: I just don't make a big deal of it. Secondly, I was making such a point out of hating you because you're unsettlingly good-looking while also being shockingly arrogant, so I figured you'd probably kill me for daring to be attracted to you."

Gerald threw back his head and laughed: genuine, carefree laughter that sparkled in the night air like stardust and made Damien's heart skip a beat. "I'm flattered, Vryce. That might have been my reaction a few months ago, but I find myself inexplicably comfortable around you now. Hence my lack of 'snapping at you', as you so elegantly put it."

Damien winced. "Damn. You heard that?"

Gerald smirked. "You think quite loudly sometimes, you know."

Before Damien could think of a suitable retort, Karril appeared on the deck of the ship. The Iezu was wan-looking and not entirely substantial, with just a hint of translucency around the edges. Gerald frowned at him.

"Karril, you look like Hell. It must be urgent if you couldn't wait until we were on land: what's wrong?"

The Iezu grimaced. "You'd better tell the Captain to hold off on making port, Gerald, it's all gone to hell here. I would have warned you sooner but I can't materialize that far out to sea. Tell the Captain to drop anchor: there's a few things you need to know."

The Captain was skeptical when Damien told him to drop anchor and wait a while before moving any closer to land, but he obeyed anyway. The three reconvened in Damien's cabin for the discussion: Karril insisted it wasn't necessary for the crew to hear the whole story. Gerald leaned against the wall by the porthole and stared steadily at Karril.

"Alright, let's hear the bad news first."

Karril sighed deeply. "The bad news is that Calesta has somehow gotten King Steafán wrapped around his little finger just as much as the Immortal Prince was."

Stunned silence descended on the cabin as Damien and Gerald froze in shock. Karril swallowed hard and went on. "The _really_ bad news is that Steafán already had some deep-seated prejudices, which are now being brought to the fore and exercised over the whole bloody kingdom."

Gerald's eyes had narrowed dangerously. "What exactly are you saying, Karril?"

The Iezu's eyes were sad as he looked at his long-time friend. "He's started the witch-hunts again, Gerald. It's the Dark Ages all over again. They're hunting down adepts as 'tainted by evil', sorcerers are being burned at the stake - no one's safe now. The Knights of the Flame are the only ones not being actively killed but they're under orders to bring in any fae-Workers they encounter. Steafán's actually reformed the Inquisition, and he's forming up the army to lead an assault on the Forest, claiming it's a 'breeding pool of evil'. He's even sent militia forces west of the Dividers into Ganji, routing out all the Workers there. It's a massacre."

Gerald's face went completely white, colorless as marble: Damien sank down on the edge of his cot, his knees suddenly weak and useless. "What about the Hallow's Eve Court?" he asked through numb lips. Karril looked baffled.

"The what?"

"It's a Church-sanctioned order of female sorcerers, pledged to use the darker aspects of the fae against the demons, to turn their own powers against them." Gerald said quietly, reciting the facts automatically. Damien nodded.

"My sister's a part of the Court. They don't exactly make a secret out of the fact that they are in contact with demons: if the King's moving against Workers on the basis of some kind of corruption..."

Karril spread his hands, his expression one of helplessness. "I'm sorry, Reverend, I don't have any answer for that. There's one more thing you need to know, though."

Something about the Iezu's tone sent foreboding thrilling through Damien's body, and Gerald closed his eyes. "What else?"

"The King's making examples." Karril said quietly. "He forced the Patriarch to turn over the files on every Knight of the Flame for _special investigation_, and he took a particular interest in you, Reverend. He suspects Gerald of having ties to the Forest, and between Gerald, Ciani, and Mer Reese, you've got quite a history of working alongside fae-Workers. He... he declared exigent circumstances and had you tried for high treason, _in absentia._"

The world seemed to sway violently, and for a moment Damien thought he was going to be sick. He swallowed hard, fighting down the nausea. Gerald reached out, laying a hand on the Knight's shoulder, a surprising gesture of support. Damien closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to breathe, before he choked out, "What was the verdict?"

Karril shifted awkwardly. "He also added charges of consorting with powers of evil, aiding and abetting enemies of the King, and aiding and abetting known Workers. The trial made national headlines, everyone knew it was going to show just how hard he was cracking down on Workers."

"Karril. _What was the verdict?_"

The Iezu closed his eyes. "Guilty, tried with prejudice. The jury recommended without mercy, though I'm pretty sure they were coerced into it, but regardless... the sentence was death. I'm sorry, Reverend."

The words fell hollowly on Damien's ears, echoing and distorted, drained of meaning. _Death._ He had committed no crime, done no wrong: all he had ever tried to do was to protect the people of Erna, and this was his reward. A sentence of death from a deranged monarch, corrupted by a rogue Iezu bent on world domination.

Gerald's hand tightened convulsively on Damien's shoulder. When his spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically harsh. "And the King thinks that he can get away with this? The people won't stand for it, Karril, we'll have a civil uprising before the week is out."

Karril's face twisted into an expression of bitterness. "You would think so, but Steafán's been slaughtering anyone who so much as grumbles about the new regime. The people are in an uproar, but they have no one to lead them. The trial was a month ago, you know - they should have rebelled by now, but they can't get organized. Ciani's trying to do something about that - she's gone to ground in Jaggonath, and she's running a resistance group of adepts and sorcerers who've escaped the King's raiding parties. I think the Church might be your best hope, Gerald - formally they've bowed to the King's wishes, but in reality they're biding their time. The Patriarch practically burst into flames of wrath when the King made the order for the files to be turned over, apparently, and the Knights are the worst. I've even heard rumors of an Order rebellion in the West: some young up-and-coming knight by the name of... Davin Escron, I think it was."

A sudden flare of hope lit Damien's eyes. "_Davin_? Vulking hell, that damn kid never did learn to follow the rules."

"You know him?" Gerald asked, glancing at Damien.

"Yeah, we went through training together." Damien explained easily, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice as he spoke. He brushed it off quickly, though, and continued. "I'm not surprised he's started a revolt, the guy was a rabble-rouser from the start. Hell. What are we going to do?"

Gerald's silver eyes narrowed and sharpened, gaining a dark edge that sent tingles racing along Damien's spine. "If the people don't have a leader, then by God we'll give them one. Karril, I want you to start spreading the word amongst my various allies. Let it be known that the Forest is open as a haven for any of those being persecuted by the new laws. This is war - and if Steafán wants a fight, then he'll get one. If there's one thing I haven't forgotten from my days as a Neocount, it's how to topple a tyrant from his throne."

Karril nodded, the beginnings of a grin spreading across his face. "Just like old times, isn't it? Where will you two and the _khrast_ be headed?"

"To Jaggonath." Gerald said firmly. "If Lady Ciani's started a resistance there, we might gain some helpful information - and I need to have a stern word with a certain Patriarch."

Karril nodded and vanished. Gerald sat down on the bunk next to Damien, his silver eyes surprisingly concerned as he brushed a stray lock of dark hair out of Damien's face. "Are you all right?"

Damien managed a shaky nod. "Yeah, just fine, considering I've just been told I'm a dead man walking." He pressed his eyes closed, trying to work through the sick dread roiling in his gut. "God, Gerald, what are we going to do?"

Gerald's expression hardened, and he said firmly, "We're going to keep fighting, Damien. And no matter what, I am _not_ going to let Calesta win. I _will_ destroy him, if it's the last thing I do."

Looking at the almost angelic-seeming adept who had uttered that dire threat, Damien felt oddly reassured. Because if there was one person on Erna who would stand a chance against a deranged monarch, a megalomaniacal demon, and an army of fanatical soldiers, then that person was Gerald Tarrant.


	3. Chapter 2: Scent Of The Snow

_Author's Note: I'm trying to make this fic not quite so slash-centric as my others, so even though the relationship between Damien and Gerald is going to be a major plot point it's not the entire plot unto itself. Therefore, I give you an entire chapter that is actually Damien-and-Gerald-less. I figure it's only fitting: the original working title for this piece was "Primo Victoria" - that song by Sabaton, that was covered by Van Canto? Yeah. It was entirely war-centric, pretty much, but of course the slash got in there somehow. Het too, which surprised even me - I think it's going to work, though. _

_A.N.2: I'm delighted that you're enjoying this so much, everyone. I've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off the last few weeks, but I thought I'd make sure to get another chapter of this up, since everyone seems to like it so much. A word of warning (or possibly reassurance, depending on your opinion of long fics): I'm trying to turn this into my longest Coldfire fic so far, so this is going to be a doozy. The outline I've written runs to a total of fourteen chapters, plus the prologue and epilogue. I plan on giving all the characters a good shot at center stage this time, not just Damien and Gerald, so it's going to be long and winding and fairly epic if I do say so myself. Also due to this, each chapter from this point forward is probably going to cover at least two separate viewpoints, so prepare for some jumping around. I'll try to keep it from getting too confusing, though. _

_A.N.3: I don't normally use this many OCs in the Coldfire universe, but in this case it was necessary. There aren't that many characters named in the original books, and let's face it - most of them were fighting __**against**__ Damien and Gerald. I bent the rules so that Hesseth survived, but I still needed more characters, so any and all feedback and constructive criticism of my OCs is more than welcome. _

_A.N.4: I know there are some people out there, like myself, who survive on a diet of caffeine, Mars Bars and steamy slash fics. So, I've arranged a little surprise for you all: this is the first of two - that's right, __**TWO**__ - updates I will be making as part of my Yule fic package. This one is mostly plot. The next one is still packed with plot - I'm still in the set-up stage after all, the full-on smut won't be coming for a while - but it has some more of what I like to call Teaser Slash. You'll see what I mean. _

_**An Overview of the Hallow's Eve Court:**_

_This is a quick rundown of the ranks in the Court, just so that you're not totally lost by the myriad titles that I've invented. Also gives their standing relevant to the rest of the Church of Human Unification, which they are technically a faction of. Sort of like the Knights Templar and the Catholic Church, here on good old Terra. _

_**Taibhse Banríona**__ - Irish for Ghost Queen, the head of the Court. Equivalent rank to a Matriarch in the rest of the Church. _

_**Inghean Ríogh**__ - Irish for King's Daughter or Princess, the elite of the Court. On par with a Knight of the Flame. _

_**Banlaoch**__ - Irish for Warrior Woman, the rank held by the majority of the Court. Almost level with a Knight of the Flame: the distinction between Banlaoch and Inghean Ríogh is more heavily emphasized within the Court than amongst the uninitiated._

_**Cailín **__- Irish for Young Woman, the title given to initiates before they have proved themselves worthy of the rank of Banlaoch. Not much standing with the rest of the clergy, considering most of the Church would prefer to pretend the Court doesn't even exist. _

_**Fiagaí **__- Irish for Hunters. The term used to refer to the members of the Court, regardless of rank. Singular form is Fiach. Members of the Court are usually addressed by their rank, but may be addressed simply as Fiach if their rank is not known. _

**Chapter Two: Scent of the Snow**

The ancient stone building stood high in the Divider mountains, perched on a plateau more than halfway up the perilous slope. Fashioned as a mixture of fortress and temple, the Hallow's Eve Court consisted of a single-story building in the center, flanked by a loose grouping of stables, smithies, and outbuildings. The main building was constructed in the shape of a spoked wheel, the Grand Hall at the center with the living quarters and other chambers radiating outward along vaulted-roofed hallways.

In the predawn darkness, the mountains were silent and still. No human voices sounded, no birds sang: a light covering of snow lay on the skeletal greenery and barren stone, muffling sound and smoothing away both color and definition. A thin column of smoke trickling up from one of the smithies was the only sign of life - that, and the line of dark figures making its way in silence to the doors of the Court.

_Inghean Ríogh _Jasmine Vryce was awakened by the sound of voices raised in anger. Instincts alert and jangling instantly, she flung back the sheet and slipped out of her narrow bed in absolute silence, already pulling on her boots as she reached for her swords. It was close to an hour before dawn, that time when the midnight blue sky turned grey and green as the Core began to rise. The small room looked barren and frigid in the cold light: it was almost empty, holding only the bare essentials of existence, as dictated by the precepts of the Hallow's Eve Court. A small bureau stood against the far wall, a narrow mirror hanging against the stone beside it: a threadbare rug was all that covered the stone floor. Next to the door was rack of armor and weaponry: this stand was the only furniture in the room that looked like it was actually of some value, and the fine-crafted armor it bore was clearly worth a great deal. Beside the narrow cot that served as Jasmine's bed, she kept a pair of short, slim katana: she was renowned in the Court for being the only member who fought with two blades.

The Hallow's Eve Court had been founded at almost the same time as the Order of the Flame. Their mission was simple: use the darkest aspects of the fae, the Workings that no sane Knight of the Flame would touch, and turn those dark powers against their nightbound foes. The member of the court were exclusively female, referred to as the _Fiagaí_: the hunters. Each _Fiach_ was required to spend at least a year out on their own, hunting demons on their own turf, surviving on their wits and skills alone. Only after completing that sojourn were they allowed to take their Court name - a name that symbolized their skills and ambitions in the Court, that each _Fiach_ chose for themselves. Jasmine's was Nighthawk, a reference to a small but cunning and highly predatory species of hawk that lived in the far north - and a tribute to something that had happened to her years ago, that changed the course of her life forever.

One of the Nighthawk's greatest attributes was its silent flight, though, which was part of why Jasmine made absolutely no sound while she prepared as if for battle, even though she was fairly sure it was a false alarm. Strapping a specially-designed light harness of deerskin around her torso, she slipped the sheathed katana into their slots across her back and headed for the door.

An early-morning conflict, whether between humans and demons or humans alone, was hardly a rare occurrence here at the the headquarters of the Court. That was why all the members of the Court past the rank of _Cailín_ slept in their battle-ready tunics and leggings. However, as Jasmine moved silently through the empty halls, her footsteps muffled by the softness of her deerskin boots, her anxiety rose. She could hear the sound of a man's growling voice, then the high, lilting tones of the _Banríona_, slightly shrill with anger. Along the corridor, other doors were opening, other _Fiagaí _slipping out to investigate. Pausing just inside the slightly-ajar front doors, Jasmine listened for a moment. A man was speaking, his voice haughty and dripping with disdain.

"Stand aside, old woman. We are here to take all of you into custody, by order of King Steafán."

Jasmine's blood ran hot the instant she heard the words _old woman_ leave the man's lips. The _Banríona_ replied in a voice chill with anger. "Good sir, I understand that you are only following orders, but I must insist that you and your men leave the temple grounds immediately. The Court answers to the authority of the Church of Human Unification, and no other: this temple is sacred ground, and you have no right to bare steel here."

"Maybe you don't understand, crone." the man spat. "You don't have any authority anymore. The King's orders were clear - you're all under arrest for Consorting with Faeborn and Unsanctioned Use of the Fae."

Jasmine gritted her teeth and, with a gesture of warning to her sisters, she flung open the double doors. Weak light flooded into the hall as she strode forward, starting down the sweeping, curved stone steps. The _Banríona _was standing at the foot of the steps, glaring sternly at a hulking man in leather armor, who wore the emerald cloak of a Royal Guard. Behind him, a group of other men huddled, clutching a variety of weapons in their hands: they looked apprehensive, gripping their swords and axes tightly and looking around in anxiety, wary of a trap. As the doors banged open, they all jumped. Jasmine stormed down to stand next to the _Banríona_, resting a hand lightly on her hip as she asked coolly, "What is the meaning of this?"

The ringleader sneered at her. "Captain Edric, of the King's Royal Guard." he said arrogantly, his dark eyes glittering with disdain. "I'm here to take you lot into custody."

Jasmine's lip curled. "I see. You realize it is heresy to carry arms on consecrated ground, and again to threaten a member of a religious organization on the ground of their temple?"

"Doesn't matter. We've got full dispensation." Edric snapped, thrusting a roll of parchment at her. At an almost imperceptible gesture from the _Banríona_, Jasmine took the scroll, trying to suppress a shudder as Edric's fingers brushed hers for a moment. She thought she recognized the brutish man from one of her rare forays into the nearby town of Swiftwater: she definitely recognized some of the men in the group. What unsettled her, though, was that they were neither Royal Guards nor troublemakers. Amongst the shifting, uneasy figures, she spotted the local miller, along with the town smith: both honest, hardworking men, who had no quarrel with nor ill will toward the Court. The arrogant Captain must have had _some_ sort of leverage...

Warily, Jasmine unrolled the scroll. The bold, curling writing was the same as that used for the Royal Proclamations that were sometimes posted in Swiftwater's Town Hall.

_By Order of His Majesty, the honorable King Steafán, __Ruler of the Blessed Kingdom of Éireanon:_

_All members of the organization styling itself the Hallow's Eve Court are hereby indicted on charges of Aiding and Abetting his Majesty's Known Enemies, of Consorting with Powers of Evil, of Aiding and Abetting Known Fae-Workers, and of Consorting With Demonic Personages. All officers of the Royal Guard are hereby granted authority to detain members of the Hallow's Eve Court with impunity, to take the aforementioned individuals into custody, and to escort these individuals to await judgement before the nearest legal authority..._

The _Taibhse Banríona_ was a kind, strong-willed woman in her late seventies. She was dignified and reserved, her quiet manner and silver hair lending her an aura of wisdom and authority, and the tapestry of wrinkles and warm sky blue eyes softened her look into something akin to that of a beloved grandmother. Most remarkable of all her traits, though, was her endless strength. She was a pillar of fortitude, determination, and self-possession, and there was no _Cailín_ anywhere who did not idolize her.

At that moment, however, as she stood there in the predawn grey and read the proclamation of the King, the _Banríona_ grew wan indeed. Jasmine tore her eyes from the document, horrified, to look at her matriarch - and felt her own face turn pale at the look on the old woman's face. For this was the first time, since Jasmine had joined the Court fifteen years ago, that the _Banríona_ looked _old_.

The old woman was silent for a moment, her head bowed, then she looked up at the sickening smug Captain Edric. Her lips quivered slightly as she spoke. "I ask a moment, Captain, to speak with my daughters."

The Captain sneered. "If you must. See that you are brief."

Feeling numb, Jasmine followed the _Banríona_ back up the steps to the open doors, where the other _Fiagaí_ had gathered. They were silent, not so much out of discipline now as shock, looking amongst each other with wide eyes: as they two women stepped back inside the Court, the others turned to them with hopeful eyes, certain that their adored _Banríona_ would make everything right.

For a moment, the elderly woman stood in silence, and she looked almost lost. Her kind, tired eyes roved over the women gathered around - there were _Banlaoch _and _Inghean Ríogh_ almost as old as the _Banríona _herself, while some of the _Cailín_ were as young as fifteen - and a look of deep sadness overcame her. With a brief shake of her head, the _Banríona_ turned to Jasmine, her eyes now dark and sorrowful.

"Take them out the back way, my daughter. Take only what is necessary, leave all else behind. You must travel light and fast."

Jasmine's blood ran cold, and a rill of distressed murmurs ran through the crowd. "Blessed Mother?" she asked softly, trying not to show her own dismay. "Surely you do not mean...?"

"There is nothing we can do to fight this, daughter." the old woman said gently, taking Jasmine's hand in her own frail, wrinkled one. "I will delay the Captain as long as I may, but it is up to you and to the other _Inghean Ríogh_ to get the young ones out safely. Travel northeast: if there is to be a rebellion, that is where it shall begin. The King has been taken by the powers of evil, my children, and thus we must vanish like smoke in the wind until the time is right to strike."

Jasmine wanted desperately to argue, but the words stuck in her throat, trapped by the bonds of her overwhelming respect for the elderly woman who had taught Jasmine everything. Instead, she dipped her head gracefully, taking the _Banríona'_s hand and pressing a swift, respectful kiss to the wrinkled fingers. "As you wish, Blessed Mother."

The _Banríona_ smiled wistfully at her. "Lead them well, my daughter." she said softly. Jasmine nodded, and turned to the _Fiagaí_, her voice lifting proudly.

"You heard our Blessed Mother. You have five minutes: take what you can, what will be needed and what will not slow your ride. Gather at the East Door as soon as you have what you need, we will leave in small groups. Go now."

The _Fiagaí_ scattered: even the _Cailins_ already knew better than to argue with an _Inghean Ríogh_. Jasmine started to move toward her own room, but a light touch on her arm halted her. She turned back, her gaze questioning. "Blessed Mother?"

The _Banríona_ smiled sadly at her, her faded blue eyes warm. "I have never told you, my dear, but... you are like a daughter to me in truth." she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. "In the event that I do not escape, I wish you to take this."

Reaching up, the old woman unfastened a silver chain she wore about her neck. From the chain hung a thick silver medallion, engraved with the symbol of a spread-winged raven: the symbol of the Court. Jasmine's eyes widened, her breath catching: if the _Banríona_ died, and the Raven Medallion had been entrusted to her...

"Blessed Mother, I could not possibly-" Jasmine began, but the _Banríona _hushed her gently.

"Nonsense, my daughter. In these dark times, if I may not watch over my children, there is no other I would rather have to lead them - to safety or to battle." the _Banríona_ said firmly, pressing the medallion into Jasmine's hand. Jasmine's fingers seemed to close around the metal without thought, and she bowed her head, eyes wet with tears as she returned her mentor's sorrowful smile.

"Thank you, Blessed Mother." she whispered, fastening the chain about her own neck: the medallion hung against her chest, feeling far heavier than it should have. On a sudden impulse, Jasmine abandoned her decorum and actually hugged the older woman for a moment, her voice hoarse as she whispered, "You have been a far better mother to me than the woman who birthed me ever could have been."

She pulled away and, giving the _Banríona _a last, fleeting look, she turned and hastened away toward her own room. The Queen of the Hallow's Eve Court sighed, filled with a kind of sorrowful pride as she watched the young woman she loved as dearly as her own child turned a corner and vanished from her sight.

"The Morrígan watch over you, my dear." she murmured, before turning to the doors once more. Drawing herself up proudly and squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward to face the Captain - and to meet her fate at last.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

Jasmine was just gathering the last piece of her armor when shouts rose from the front of the Temple once more. Her heart leaping into her throat, Jasmine stuffed the last piece of armor into a saddlebag and tied it shut: abandoning the few remaining items as unimportant, she slipped back into the hallways, heading swiftly for the East door.

It physically hurt to turn her back on the front of the Temple where the _Banríona_ was facing Captain Edric, but she had her orders and she would not disobey. Her brother's voice echoed in her mind: _never turn your back on a friend, Jasmine_. She clenched her jaw tightly, fighting down her rampant emotions as she hurried down the corridor, other _Fiagaí_ hastening alongside her. _I'm sorry, Damy_, she thought sadly. _This is war, and in war, there must be sacrifices_.

Another figure darted out of a side chamber and almost collided with Jasmine, but ducked aside at the last moment. It was Serena, one of Jasmine's closest friends, a fiery redhead with a temper to match who had chosen the name Firefox. She had a longbow slung over her back and a quiver of arrows in her hand, and she tossed Jasmine a bitter smile.

"I guess this is the big battle we were all waiting for, eh, Jas?"

"Less talk, more hurrying." Jasmine said briskly, not even slowing as Serena fell into step beside her.

They reached the East door to find a tight knot of _Fiagaí_, all of them armed and ready for orders. Jasmine opened her mouth - just as a bellowed command rang out over the Temple grounds.

"_Fire!_"

There was a whistling noise, and Jasmine swore. "Get down!"

As they flung themselves flat to the stone, a hail of arrows came rattling down from the sky. Many of the arrows were alight, and on impact they seemed to explode in flames: the fire caught hold of the tapestries and wooden beams of the halls and raced along the walls. As she looked out through the half-open door, Jasmine caught sight of dozens of warriors garbed in the green and copper of the Royal Guard, pouring down from the surrounding slopes.

"Go!" Jasmine hissed to her fellow warriors, her hand clenching instinctively on the hilt of her sword. "Go now, in groups - _Banlaoch_, take the _Cailíns, _look after them! Head for the Temple in Jaggonath! _Go!_"

The warriors leapt to their feet and began to race out of the Temple in small groups, the older warriors breaking up to stay with handfuls of the younger initiates. For a moment, Jasmine thought they would make it - then she saw the dark shape rise against the faintly lit predawn sky, and her heart plummeted.

It was what the soldiers called a fireball - a boulder wrapped in grasses and fabrics, doused in oil and set alight before being fired from a catapult. How the Royal Guards had managed to get a catapult up into the mountains was anyone's guess, but Jasmine knew one thing.

Steafán was very, very determined to eliminate the Court.

The fireball hit before she could do more than weave a rudimentary shield around herself. The explosion of incendiary material and shattered rock knocked her off her feet and sent her flying into the wall: the impact with the hard stone left her dazed, and she slid down to crumple on the floor for a moment, her ears ringing. The urgency in her mind drove her on, though, and she struggled to her knees, wincing as flames licked too close for comfort where they climbed a tapestry. As the ringing began to diminish, she made out the sounds of battle outside the Temple where the _Fiagaí _were fighting their way past the Royal Guards - and, closer, a weak moan.

"Jas..."

With tremendous effort, Jasmine dragged herself to her feet and staggered forward. Serena had been caught in the blast as well, and lay sprawled on the scorched stone, blood running from a deep gash on her right leg. Jasmine crouched next to her, shouting over the rising chaos outside.

"Can you walk?"

"Maybe." Serena managed, her face pale. Jasmine wished that she had time to Heal her friend, but the guards were too close and the situation too dire for her to even make the attempt. Gritting her teeth, Jasmine heaved her friend up: Serena gasped in pain but stayed on her feet, swaying and leaning on Jasmine for support. Drawing a deep breath, Jasmine forced herself forward, out through the gaping hole that the fireball had left in the Temple's wall.

Coughing harshly from the smoke filling her lungs, Jasmine staggered out into the weak light of dawn. Serena managed a few steps, but her leg gave way beneath her: before Jasmine could catch her, the redhead sank against a chunk of fallen stone, her face pale but determined.

"Jasmine, you have to go!"

"I'm not leaving you!" Jasmine cried, her voice almost lost to the crackle of flames and the din of battle. Around them, they could hear the clash of metal on metal and the screams of wounded soldiers and _Fiagaí_: the smoke from the fire filled the air, making it difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction. Serena's face was streaked with tears, but she gripped Jasmine's hand, eyes shining with determination.

"My place is here." With a swift motion, she slung her quiver over her shoulder and drew an arrow, knocking it to the string of her bow with practiced ease. "I'll try to get away, I will - I promise. But you have to go, Jasmine. You have to get away, head east - you have to rally the other Courts and keep them safe!"

Jasmine's heart was heavy in her chest as she swallowed back tears. "May the Morrígan watch over you, Serena." she whispered, squeezing her friend's hand tightly before she turned and forced herself to run. She skirted a low-built storehouse and raced through the chaos of fleeing warriors toward the stables, fighting down the tears that filled her eyes.

"May the Morrígan watch over you as well, Jasmine." Serena whispered, turning back to the fray and lifting her bow. "May she watch over us all."

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

The town of Swiftwater was small, yet it bustled with life. As evening crept closer, the streets hummed with activity, people hurrying too and fro on their errands. Such was the flow of people of all kinds, no one noticed a slender figure in a dark cloak, leading a glossy black mare along the cobbled streets.

The town crier's voice rose over the low hubbub, strident and piercing. "Hear ye, hear ye! Trials held in Paxtarrani! Knight of the Flame convicted of High Treason! Hallow's Eve Court disbanded! Hear ye, hear ye! King moves against Workers! All forms of contact with the faeborn outlawed on pain of death!"

Jasmine faltered for a moment, her hand tightening on her horse's reigns. _Knight of the Flame_. _Damien_. With shaking hands, she drew her cloak more tightly around her throat, tugging the cowl further over her face as she guided her horse down one of the less bustling side streets. She kept her head bowed as she hurried down the streets, moving quickly but trying to stay inconspicuous. The last thing she needed was to attract the attention of any Royal Guards that might be about.

She had barely made it out of the Temple alive. The Royal Guards were everywhere, it seemed, reinforced by large numbers of militia. Jasmine had slipped through, though, with the grace and speed of the hawk for which she was named - and she knew that most of the others had made it out too, from the cries of frustration that she heard as she slipped away from the Temple. She had paused only long enough to free her mare, Cal'en'dria, from the furthest stable before stealing away into the mountain trails and selecting a path that would take her on a winding route down into Swiftwater. A brief stop for supplies, and she was on her way again.

All she had to worry about now was staying under the radar of the guards. She had Healed her few wounds, but she was exhausted both mentally and physically: as soon as she was safely away from the town, she would rest. The news of the trials had been a bitter shock when it first reached her ears, and it hadn't taken long to confirm that it was indeed her beloved older brother who was convicted of High Treason. Wherever Damien was, she prayed that he was safe: he was the only family she had left, now.

Finally, she reached the edge of the town. The last few buildings gave way to rolling hills, a dusty round wending its way between them in a general easterly direction. Jasmine paused for a moment, allowing herself a slow breath. She was almost in the clear.

A voice spoke from behind her.

"Well, well. If it isn't Jasmine Vryce."

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

The Patriarch of the Church of Human Unification on Erna stood at the window of his office, his time-weathered hands wrapped around a cup of long-cold tee, his faded blue eyes dark with sorrow as he gazed out over the city. The streets were almost deserted: the few people who walked the cobbles did so with hurried strides and bowed heads, their eyes darting fearfully about as they dreaded the swirl of a vivid green cloak.

Jaggonath was a city now ruled by terror. Fear lay like a heavy, suffocating cloak over the people, hastening their steps and bowing their spines. The Patriarch, watching them scurry on their errands like rats caught in a trap from which they could not escape, felt a mixture of rage and pity. Pity, for the souls who were suffering in these dark times - and rage, for the tyrant who had inflicted this terror.

Once, he and Steafán had been the closest of friends. Once, they had met for dinner and a pleasant chat, sharing the kind of jokes that are only understood by lifelong friends. He had been proud to call Steafán an ally and a friend, both political and personal - and now, he felt as though a knife had been driven squarely into his back by the once-benevolent King.

Always, the Patriarch had been a man of action. Now, however, he found himself at an impasse. His instincts urged him to defy the King and throw off the shackles of this sudden, inexplicably cruel tyranny - yet his reason cautioned him that such an action might well make the situation far worse. There was more at work here than simple power-lust, of that he was certain: he knew Steafán too well to believe that he would abuse his power thus for no good reason. Something was terribly wrong with the King of Éireanon, and he only wished he could discover what that might be. Surely there must be some way to fix this terrible situation?

He remembered days, long ago, when he and Steafán had been as close as brothers. Indeed, they had once pledged themselves as brothers in spirit - brothers not born, but forged by friendship and abiding affection. Yet now, the Patriarch found himself betrayed: Steafán had not even deigned to explain his actions in person. Instead, the Patriarch had found himself accosted by a messenger bearing a coldly worded scroll of Royal Decree, demanding all records on the Knights of the Flame and informing him of his new duties. Hunting sorcerers, and _persuading_ them to confess.

The mere thought of this new, hateful creature that had grown in the place of his dearest friend made the Patriarch feel ill. How had things gone so terribly wrong? What had he done, to bring himself and his cherished Church to this dreadful impasse?

As he stood there, wrapped in a shroud of bitter regret, he wondered if this was how the Prophet had once felt.

...

...

_So, what do you think? Please, I would love feedback on Jasmine: I'm always very wary of OCs because the potential for Mary Sues is just too high, but I think she's going to turn into a pretty good character. Let me know what you think, friends, I'm always looking to improve! _

_P.S. The editing may be a little rough here, I'm short on sleep and long on caffeine. If there's anything too horrendously glaring let me know, otherwise I won't bother worrying about it. _


	4. Chapter 3: In Your Silent Kindness

_Author's Note: Here it is, the second of my Yule-present updates. This one definitely strays more into the area of slash. Ms Friedman, eat your heart out. Still plenty of plot, though. (I can hear the Nostalgia Critic in the back of my head, singing his little 'Exposition Song'. Don't know what I'm talking about? Probably for the best.) You know, this fic is tremendously fun to write: I think I'm enjoying the most out of any of my fics excluding my Mpreg series. Even though it's dark, there's just something very enjoyable about this set-up. You lot should count that as a good thing, too: I'd never have gotten these two updates both done in time otherwise. There are actually over seven thousand words of story in these two chapters: I kind of surprised myself. _

**Chapter Three: In Your Silent Kindness**

After delivering the dire news of the King's new laws - and receiving his orders from Gerald - Karril had vanished back to the mainland to prepare for the coming conflict. Damien was still in shock: in the course of a single night, he had gone from returning voyager to wanted criminal, and there was nothing he could do to reverse this disaster.

He couldn't fight the charges, that much was obvious. Sitting on his bunk in the solitude of his cabin, Damien forced himself to face the harsh truth. Steafán had coerced the jury into handing down a guilty verdict in the first place, there was no way for him to appeal it - and with the severity of the charges against him, it was highly likely that the Royal Guard would have orders to execute him on sight. If they had already capitulated far enough to turn over their personnel files, the Church would offer no refuge either. Damien wondered with sudden, morbid amusement how the Patriarch had reacted when word of the changes reached him: he could just see the man white-faced with wrath, glaring down at the royal orders with those icy blue eyes narrowed in rage. He wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn that the messenger who delivered that particular decree was permanently traumatized by the sheer silent fury of the enraged Patriarch.

With another lurch of dread, Damien wondered if that was the same reaction his own letter, explaining his situation, had received.

It couldn't have gone as badly as he sometimes feared, though - certainly the Patriarch would not have been pleased by the revelation that Gerald Tarrant was both the Hunter and the former Prophet and Neocount of Merentha, but if he had been as infuriated as Damien feared then he would have given the King that information. From the charges Damien had been convicted on, though, it sounded as though Steafán was operating on the assumption that Gerald was nothing more than he professed to be - an adept serving the Forest, not its shadowy master.

Even so, there would not be a warm welcome awaiting Damien in Jaggonath. At that thought, however, his mind stalled again. Would they even _be_ returning to Jaggonath? He had no idea of Gerald's plans, though he was sure the adept did indeed _have _a plan. Somehow, they had to find a way to kill a demon that most thought to be immortal - all while evading the attention of the law, and hopefully not drawing even more attention to themselves. Gerald was the Hunter, and as such had considerable power to back up his intentions - but he couldn't possibly muster the forces for open warfare against the King, could he? And even if he could, that wouldn't solve the ultimate problem: if the King was under Calesta's influence, then the only way to stop this new Crusade was to defeat their Iezu opponent. War would not accomplish that, because Calesta could not be killed by mortal means. Yet, what did they know of _any_ manner in which an Iezu could be killed? How could they obtain the time and means to figure that out when they were both wanted men? Karril had not mentioned anything about Hesseth - was the rakh a target as well, or did the King not know of her presence in their company?

What had happened to Jasmine? Was she safe, or had the Court been attacked?

Then, there was the matter of Davin Escron. Damien felt sick just thinking about him. Against his will, a memory of warm blue eyes and a rakish, carefree grin hit him, but he shoved it away almost violently. He fervently hoped that it didn't become necessary to seek his aid: leader of the Western rebellion or not, Damien never wanted to see Davin's face again. The memories he couldn't seem to shake were more than enough torment for him.

"You should be resting, Vryce."

Damien started, caught off guard: wrapped up in his inner turmoil, he hadn't heard the Hunter's near-silent approach. He looked up to see the blond adept leaning against the frame of the open cabin door, his expression inscrutable, his pale grey eyes carefully shuttered. Damien sighed, rubbing a weary hand along his jaw, which was starting to ache from having his teeth clenched.

"I know. I just... I can't stop thinking. My little sister's out there in that mess, Gerald - if Steafán's even subdued the Church, then no one's safe."

The adept glided forward silently, a tiny flicker of what might have been sympathy in his eyes as he sat down next to Damien, a chill hand just grazing the Knight's arm. "The Hallow's Eve Court trains its _Fiagaí _well, Vryce. If anyone were to come through this strife unscathed, it would be them."

Damien stared at the adept, taken aback almost as much by the hint of emotion the Hunter had shown as by his words. "You know about the Court?"

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. Gerald's icy mask snapped back into place instantly, and he shifted back just slightly: the change in distance was almost negligible, yet to Damien it felt as though a chasm had just opened between them. The adept's voice was unnaturally toneless.

"One tends to learn many things over the centuries, Reverend."

Damien barely held back a physical wince. Obviously, he had touched a nerve somehow: oddly enough, it was an unsettling thought. Usually, he couldn't care less whether the adept was irked with him... but then, usually, he hadn't just found out that his pool of allies had shrunk to one sociopathic serial killer, a rakh, and a jocular but mostly illusory demon.

He knew better than to apologize, though: that would only draw more attention to the issue. Instead, he said quietly, "Yeah, I guess so. I'm just surprised: even I didn't really know anything about them until Jasmine was recruited, and apparently their main temple is somewhere near Ganji."

A little of the rigidity in Gerald's posture eased, and he nodded slightly. When he spoke, his voice was still cold, but the brittle edge was gone. "The Court values its secrecy very highly. What rank does your sister hold?"

In spite of the heaviness of his spirit, Damien smiled a bit: thinking of his adored baby sister always brightened his mood. "She's an _Inghean Ríogh_. It's rather ironic, really: our family have been avid pagans for generations, but Jasmine and I both ended up completely devoted to the Church." Damien's words trailed away as the memories struck him suddenly, still sharp and painful, of a time in his life best forgotten: shaking it off, he smiled ruefully. "And now I'm traveling with the former Prophet. If I didn't know better, I would think someone up there was playing a nasty little prank."

Gerald's piercing gaze was entirely too discerning, but he let the issue rest without inquiring further into Damien's family background, for which the Knight was deeply grateful. "Everything happens for a reason, Vryce." was all he said.

Damien blinked at him. "Seriously?"

One fair eyebrow lifted, accompanied by a sharp question in grey eyes. "Was that statement not clearly intelligible?"

Damien frowned slightly. "It's not that, just... I don't know. Somehow I didn't expect to be hearing that kind of philosophy from you."

Gerald's eyes narrowed slightly, and Damien wondered belatedly if he'd managed to offend the touchy adept again already. However, when he spoke again, the Hunter's tone was not the frigidly distant one he used when he was truly angered: rather, it was the sharply acerbic tone he usually employed when he was baiting Damien into a fight. "Really? You _do_ recall that I wrote nearly every holy book in the Church's collection, don't you?"

Damien snorted in spite of himself. "Yes, I know. That wasn't exactly what I meant. I guess what I should have said was that I didn't expect to _still_ hear the kind of philosophy from you."

The second the words were out of his mouth, Damien could have kicked himself. He bit his tongue, waiting for the inevitable verbal flaying Gerald would bestow on him - but to his surprise, his statement was met by a sardonic smile. "Ah. You really ought to be more careful of your wording, Vryce: after all, the beauty of the English language lies in its specificity."

Damien just sat there for a moment, staring at the adept, then he shook his head rather vigorously in an attempt to clear it. "I have a feeling we're getting off topic here."

Gerald smirked. "Is that so? Do tell, Vryce: what _is_ the topic of this conversation?"

Damien groaned and buried his head in his hands. "You're giving me a headache, I hope you know that."

He opened his eyes to find Gerald suddenly much closer, the adept leaning in almost uncomfortably close, his grey eyes sparkling mischievously. Damien froze, heart abruptly thumping in his chest as the adept practically purred, "My deepest and most sincere apologies, Revered. However shall I make it up to you?"

Damien swallowed hard, wondering what the hell was going on. "Uh... _what?_"

Gerald chuckled softly. The next thing the Knight knew, the adept had leaned in and pressed his mouth to Damien's. It was a fleeting contact - no more than a soft brush of lips - but the intensity of it still made Damien dizzy. Gerald's lips were cold as ice but startlingly soft, and the combination of cold and pleasure struck clear through into Damien's bones. Before he could even react, though, the adept pulled back, his silvery eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the cabin.

"Get some sleep, Vryce." he said softly, rising with the fluid grace of a cat. One of his hands brushed the Knight's shoulder for an instant, then he was gone, only a lingering chill on Damien's lips to confirm that it hadn't been some strange, convoluted dream.

For a moment, Damien just sat there on the edge of his bunk, completely stunned. The combination of stress and exhaustion, on top of the utter bewilderment that Gerald could so easily induce in him, was making his head spin. What the hell had just happened? The adept had appeared for no reason, dragged Damien into a ridiculously complicated conversation apparently for the sole pleasure of tying him up in verbal knots, _kissed him_ and then vanished into thin air like a bloody mirage.

It was too much. Cursing his life and adepts in general, Damien collapsed into bed, dragged a blanket over himself, and waited for his head to stop pounding.

Whether from exhaustion, mental overload, or something else entirely, he was asleep in moments.

~CF~CF~CF~CF~CF~

Hesseth paced the rough wood of the ship's deck, her fur rippling anxiously. Her claws drummed restlessly against her palms, her teeth worrying at her lower lip, ears flicking rhythmically as she paced. The wood of the ship creaked underneath her feet, the ropes of the sails thrumming lightly in the wind, the sails rustling and the waves lapping coarsely against the sides of the ship: to the _khrast_'s inhumanly sharp hearing, each sound was magnified almost past the point of endurance. That, combined with the tidal fae refracting between the waxing moons above, was enough to set Hesseth's teeth on edge.

With the tidal fae so strong, she could feel the vague emotions emanating from her companions through the field. The ship's hands were mostly asleep, producing merely vague glimmers of hope or fear at the edge of her mind, depending on their dreams. The Knight had, until a short time ago, been a seething mess of anxiety and helpless anger: now, though, she could sense the loosening of the emotional knot that entangled him, which meant he had fallen into slumber. An uneasy slumber, but slumber nonetheless.

As for the Hunter... well, he was always hard to read. His presence in the field of living fae felt _cold_, and _dark_, like a blot of shadow against the dazzling glow of the Sun's heart. It was difficult to read his emotions, he kept himself tightly controlled and there was little that was allowed to bleed into the fae: now, however... Hesseth could feel a strange indecisiveness, worry, more than a little pain, and something like sorrow emanating from the nightbound adept. She refused to probe further, though: even if he would have allowed it, she knew it was not her place to pry. Such were the subtle but powerful rules of etiquette, among those who could sense the living fae.

Hesseth had her own pain to nurse that night. She was haunted by the memory of a little human girl - a human girl who could touch the solar fae, a human girl with no mother who had looked at Hesseth with pure trust in her wide, innocent eyes. Though they had only traveled together for a few days, Jenseny had managed to worm her way into Hesseth's heart: foolish it might have been, but the rakh had almost allowed herself to see the little girl as her own. The daughter she had once had... the child she would never hold again.

Hesseth ceased her pacing and turned to face the waves, her palms coming to rest on the thick railing, her claws digging lightly into the salt-weathered wood. Loneliness ate at her like the fangs of wolves, tearing at her insides and leaving only cold emptiness in her heart. She missed her people, but deep down she knew that even that would not solve the problem: what she truly missed was having someone who could _understand_ her. Since her mate died and her child perished soon after, Hesseth had been isolated even amongst her own people. That was why she had become a _khrast_ in the first place: the close confines of the plains camp had become stifling to her. Now... now, she didn't know where to go. She had no one waiting for her: had she died that night at the gorge when the wolf-creatures had almost caught her, had the Knight not managed to cut the tree loose... no one would even have realized she was gone.

Well, perhaps one person. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to Ciani: the loremaster was a woman after her own heart, strong and fiercely independent. Hesseth often struggled when traveling with humans, fighting to understand their strange customs and ways - Ciani, though, had never made Hesseth feel like a stranger. In a way, it only made sense: they had both worked for years to bridge the gap between their worlds, it seemed somehow fitting that they should meet in the middle.

There was a soft footstep on the deck behind her, and the Hunter's voice reached her ears. "I doubt you will find your answers in the waves, Mes Rakh."

Hesseth felt her own spine stiffen without conscious volition. Fighting to keep her fur lying flat, she spoke coolly, without turning. "I don't believe I asked for your advice, Hunter. And as I recall, you don't concern yourself with matters of the living."

There was a moment of silence, which surprised Hesseth: she had been expecting a swift, cutting retort. After a moment, in spite of her better judgement, she turned: the Hunter was standing nearby, his pale eyes also fixed on the white-capped waves. When he spoke, his voice was hardly louder than the wind. "I have recently been... re-evaluating some of my previous views..."

Hesseth stared. The adept's coldness didn't seem so forced anymore: there was a hint of vulnerability in his aristocratic features that Hesseth had never seen there before. Seeing him standing there, his cloak fluttering slowly in the night breeze and his pale eyes contemplative, to the rakh's eyes he looked more _alone_ than anything. Hesseth felt the slightest hint of pity pierce her distrust and revulsion: perhaps, she thought with a momentary pang, they were not so different after all.

Then she remembered a young rakh from Lema, shivering under the gaze of cold silver eyes, and her heart hardened.

"Good for you." she said coldly. Releasing the railing, she turned a defiant gaze on him, seeing his cold grey eyes snap up to meet her own in surprise. She held his gaze for just a moment before turning away, stalking toward the steps that led below deck to the cabins. As she did so, she couldn't resist pausing and speaking once more over her shoulder.

"You might fool the priest with your _reforming_ act, Hunter, but I will not lower my guard. And the day you try anything... I'll be waiting."

She vanished down below the deck, leaving a rather stunned adept behind. For a long time, the Hunter stood at the railing, watching the waves roll by and wondering. Wondering what the future might hold, wondering if their quest had any hope of success... and wondering precisely why the rakh's suggestion that he was manipulating Damien Vryce caused a little twinge of guilt and pain somewhere deep inside him.

...

...

_Well, there it is. I hope you people are happy: Alowl, I'm just putting the finishing touches on a one-shot for you that will be posted sometime tomorrow, laden with firebird-esque goodness. Also, Hobgoblin, your present-fic will be posted sometime soon as well: the fluff is sucking my brain out, so it might take a bit, but it will definitely be up before the 24th. _


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